Matt Beard

Another Barb on the Wire

3 days. One family of 5. One campsite. 2 children lost (only temporarily). 7 miles hiked. 6 paintings completed. 3 paintings I wanted to paint but was thwarted by barbed wire. 1 global pandemic making things awkward. One long and awkward poem to show for it all...

I. Going Nowhere

Another Barb on the Wire
Hours to days
To months and soon years
We sit between these walls
Going nowhere
Slowly
Trapped in the microscope
The giant eye upon us
They locked us down
We loaded the van
A quick escape
Our desire
Another barb on the wire

 

 

II. Fair Wages

Stretching the legs
The will to live
Denied by the barrel
Of loaded guns
Pay to play
All the way
To the cemetery
A reminder that in this life
We all receive
The same fair wages
Both the great and the small
The honest and the liar
Each another barb on the wire

 

 

III. Spoke Too Soon

Screeching tires
Come to a stop
It's called camping
When your tent is a Ford
Frisbees and beer
Appear
Just before we discovered
The bookstore is in the hospital
On life support
And our youngest would not
Read another word
Until the new day dawns
We stood in the belly of the whale
And circled it seven times
As the dusk bled into the dawn
Setting out at first light
To fulfill our obligations
To the stars who spoke to us
But in our reply
We spoke too soon
And now we patiently await
The lifting of the clouds
Ever higher
And it's another barb on the wire

 

 

IV. Making Amends

The veil is lifted
The light is a flood
And I'm drowning
In a world torn asunder
Erosion on the western edge
Will rip its way to New York
In time
This is the first anniversary
Of the beginning
Of the end
It's a teacher
Like sickness
Like death
Like marriage
The lesson to be learned
It's about making amends
It's about that which cannot be sold
Because there is no buyer
It's just another barb on the wire

 

 

V. Burn No Bridges

We venture through the thicket
To where the logs once rolled
Into the ocean
Of Babylon's market
We stood against the wind
We lost a child
And found him again
Across the bridge
And angry
Burning footprints
Into the ice
We return by a different path
Stepping lightly
Into the dark
Past the hobo camps
Where a deer steps out of the shadows
And calls another child
To vanish in the trees
Search parties and satellites
We cannot force the time
She'll return when she pleases
Because she too was there
When we stood against the wind
Altogether now
We sing in a circle
We roast the mallows
And let them burn
More fuel for the flames
But not the chocolate
For it belongs to us
To fuel the fires within
Because after all
Calories are a measure of heat
And besides
It's better to burn no bridges
When it's only our hearts
That are on fire
Yet another barb on the wire

 

 

VI. Bridging Continents

Another gray morning
Greets the child
Asleep on top of the van
We'd be leaving today
Packing up camp
Sailing away
Like the Russians
When they gave up
California
In 1841
And after a headcount
Determined
There had been an extra
In their midst
Since 1812
He hid himself in this valley
Like a stowaway
As the mainland sailed
Away from the ship
With only his memories
Bridging continents
As he hacked out a new life
Through the brambles and the briar
He became another barb on the wire

 

 

VII. Spring in July

Unlike our lost children
The past is the past
It's not coming back
A ranch with no cattle
A park full of grass
With blood sucking armies
Hidden beside the path
A leisurely walk
No fences to hop
Just identical faces
Behind every mask
With identical fears
And identical tasks
Like Summer in Winter
And Spring in July
The feet they are blistered
And the situation dire
But all in all
And at the end of all ends
We're each just another barb on the wire

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All This Time

A Song for Santa Cruz Island

I might have been a late arrival
But I’ve been here all this time
I was here when the plates collided
I passed the bread and wine

I was here when we emerged from weeds
When the heavens gave us fire
When our songs kept our mother awake
When the rainbow held us higher

Vizcaíno saw me here in 1602
He called me by my name
The island of Bearded people it was
And to this day remains

I saw them come and plant the grapes
To sip the nectar from the vine
Prohibition shut them down
But the idea was never mine

The sheep were led to slaughter
And silent so was I
When the cotton gin reduced their worth
To diamonds in the sky

I saw the pigs run feral
Chased off by dogs who fell from the air
The pigs are gone and the bacon fried
You’d never know they were there

My name is Stanton now and so it was
On the day I signed
And gave the land unto the guards
I was ill but I wasn’t blind

They will keep it from abomination
A trampled barren place
But I’m well aware they’d sell the air if they could
As well as these lines upon my face

It’s for the good I’m sure they’d say
They’ll save the earth with money
Listen at the gate when I pass in the night
I’m laughing but nothing is funny

I did what I must and not without Caire
How I longed for a better hand
It was them and their lawyer’s greed
Or else it was the land

I’m the homesick Italian that built the Chapel
With bricks of my own red earth
And I’m the one that’s buried there
Whose death precedes his birth

At the altar I have heard
The mighty man’s confession
And to the courtyard I have marched
In his funeral procession

I stood last night beneath the moon
Where they’ve sold God for the highest bid
I may have defied their lawyers decrees
Breathing a graven image in the mist as I hid

From watching eyes I was not seen
Except by the all-seeing lens
To which I danced and jigged about
As one does when among their friends

Today I rise with a mist in my eyes
Tired from last night’s dance
I called out from among these ancient trees
And I answered with a glance

And here I stood among the saplings
When first their roots went down
The mighty eucalyptus whose beauty invades
Like a king in quest of a crown

The fox and the eagle and the vanishing trees
The trees they love to rhyme
The eagle loves the fattened calves
But the foxes they are mine

I might have been a late arrival
But I’ve been here all this time
I was here when the plates collided
I passed the bread and wine

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Better Places

Plein air painting of vans and a VW bus at Moonstone Beach carpark on the Humboldt coast of Northern California

Painted on location, well at first anyway, back in 2017. Then I never went back to finish it properly so about a year or two later I took it to a silent disco on the beach below and tried to finish it there, but got so distracted with silent disco-ing that I couldn’t think straight about the painting and only painted in circles instead of arriving at any sort of destination other than right back in storage where it was before and finally when I was asked to paint another painting from a similar vantage point (my last post) I figured I should pull this one from the dustpile and brush it off and have another go, and so it went.

Lots of memories here. Some would call it one of our Better Places. Others might say too many of us call it that, which is usually what I say when I’m trying to park my van in that warzone on a Saturday afternoon.

Just kidding. I don’t even try to go here on a Saturday afternoon anymore.

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Thou Shalt Not Steal

In the home where I grew up⠀
A porcelain monk lived on the kitchen counter⠀
Belly full of cookies⠀
Admonishing us not to steal⠀
Back when the house was full of sneaky fingers⠀
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I saw him enter the kitchen one day⠀
30 years ago⠀
Something clearly wrong⠀
Part of him had vanished⠀
Struggling for the words⠀
To tell me that my grandpa was gone⠀
His father⠀
The pastor⠀
The preacher⠀
Thou Shalt Not Steal⠀
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Fiercely independent⠀
Now 78⠀
Yet socially engaged like a teenager⠀
A calendar with no empty days⠀
Erased by a global pandemic⠀
A solitary castaway⠀
In the island of his own home⠀
In the socially distanced archipelago of our lives⠀
The dispatches from neighboring islands indicate⠀
That something was clearly wrong⠀
Talking differently⠀
Slurring words⠀
Isolation taking its toll⠀
Or a stroke of something worse?⠀
⠀
I’ve traveled this road all my life⠀
And so did my father⠀
Miles on our odometers until the math became meaningless⠀
Never expecting to find him at the end of the road⠀
Beneath these parting clouds⠀
No longer driving⠀
Not even moving⠀
In his chair⠀
Eyes rolled back⠀
His face lifted to the heavens⠀
Feet still on the ground⠀
But getting lighter with each labored breath⠀
⠀
911⠀
Caught before he drifted off⠀
3 more weeks in the hospital⠀
Confined to his little room⠀
A castaway once again⠀
He’d build rafts out of medical equipment ⠀
And attempt to set sail to freedom⠀
Always thwarted by the tide of nurses⠀
As he floated down the corridors toward the exit⠀
⠀
He’s back home now⠀
In the house where he raised his children⠀
But at any moment⠀
I brace for the news⠀
That he’s built a raft out of old family photos⠀
And managed to sail away⠀
⠀
We hope his sailing days are done for now⠀
His final voyage a long way off⠀
But when it finally comes⠀
And his home is left empty⠀
As that porcelain monk ⠀
I will remember⠀
That there is nothing⠀
No illness⠀
No hardship⠀
Nor even a global pandemic⠀
That can steal our joy⠀
Or our hope⠀
Or our love⠀
⠀
Hold on to what matters⠀
And say to the thieves that try to take it all away⠀
⠀
Thou Shalt Not Steal

Continue reading Thou Shalt Not Steal

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This Machine Converts Money into Noise

A plein air painting of Atlas Vans workshop in Ventura

The pandemic didn’t slow me down, it was a combination of other things; my dad’s health was certainly a heavy weight to carry, but there was also a long overdue website overhaul that took far longer than I’d ever expected. ⠀
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For a brief window back in mid-summer it seemed the covid restrictions were easing a bit, Dad’s health was stabilized, the site rebuild was complete and I could see daylight at last. We ventured south for a quick visit so pops could see his grandkids, enjoyed a much needed anniversary date with my wife, and even heard a live piano player on State Street in Santa Barbara. It nearly brought me to tears just hearing a musician making music for humans again. We were distanced, we were cautious, but like the first shoots of green after a long dark winter… it was beautiful. ⠀
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Driving back the next morning, a speeding white truck passed us on the right, veering halfway out of their lane and onto the shoulder, only to collide just ahead of us into a parked Caltrans work truck. I braced for impact, hoping to get through unscathed. The truck flew into Amie’s side of the van, which forced us into another car on my side. All I could think is that Amie was gone. When I finally regained enough control to ask if she was ok, and she said yes, well, it’s weird to say one could wrestle and steer a completely wrecked van onto the shoulder with joy, but that is what I did. ⠀
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The next few weeks were a scramble of insurance calls, finding a new van, ripping all the good stuff out of my old van and swapping it into the new one. My painting platform was a conundrum until we found out the Atlas Vans shop was across from the tow yard who could handle the installation quick and easy. ⠀
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This was painted for them on a bright morning in Ventura. With the help of their crew, along with my family, and even an art collector in Ventura that stepped up and spent a whole day helping with the van swap- I’m ready to roll again. ⠀
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But I think I’ll stay home awhile and work on some studio paintings for awhile instead.⠀
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*Title is from a sticker on the back of that yellow van

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California Responding to a Global Crisis

A plein air landscape painting of a busy day at La Suens beach in San Clemente on the Orange county coast of southern California

Yeah, this is a big one we’re going through. But we’ve gone through others. This is how global crises look here on the southwestern edge of America. ⠀
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I arrived to visit my father after a series of strokes left him housebound to the home where I was raised in Long Beach. It was decidedly un-edgy suburbia, but we’d still see Snoop buying shoes at the mall, and during Rodney King riots we saw pillars of smoke through the living room windows. It’s not that different from the home where he was raised either. Straight outta Compton you could say, but Compton was just another suburb back then. ⠀
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But Grandpa wasn’t raised in one of these typical suburbs. The West Covina home of his youth may be surrounded by cookie cutter homes now, but to this day it refuses to conform. There’s shade everywhere, as anything that grows out of the ground has been allowed to just keep on growing. A huge tree stands in the yard beside the house, bikes lean against it, rusting into permanence at the end of the dirt driveway. ⠀
The scent of oranges has now been lost in the wind. But there were once acres of them. Fresh-squeezed juice was just a fact of life. Kids laughed and screamed and rode their bikes in every direction as far as they wanted down the dirt roads between the neighboring orchards. On hot summer days, this would get old and they’d complain that they were bored. They would wish that something would happen here, and figuring that it never would, they imagined a different life beyond the orange trees.⠀
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And what a different life it became. 100 years of madness unleashed. World Wars. Vietnam. Race Riots. Fault Lines. JFK Assasination. Nuclear Reactors. War Games. Freeways wide enough to give every global crisis it’s own clear lane and yet… Road Rage. Meth. School Shootings. Gang Violence. Police Brutality. It goes on and on. ⠀
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Everyone lives on the edge of something here, and some days we just need to go to the beach.⠀
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Or in my dad’s case, maybe a cup of coffee and a walk around the block. ⠀
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It’s not quite paradise.⠀
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It’s just California responding to a global crisis.

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Repeater

A plein air painting of the Fort Rosecrans military cemetery and the San Diego skyline on the coast of southern California

Repeating patterns everywhere you look. Some patterns we wish we could break. Some patterns break us instead. And some patterns touch the heavens as her clouds roll in on those darker days.

Not this day. This day was bright like the eyes of a child whose father makes it home alive.

The man in uniform called me by name. A quick hello and he continued down the path. After he’d gone and for another while after that, I puzzled how he knew my name, trying to place his face in the graveyard of my faded memory- but he was nowhere to be found. Wrong graveyard. He was in the here and now as he came back up the path.

“The most beautiful place in California”, he called it. It certainly is unique, and while I’ve seen a lot of California and wouldn’t have necessarily chosen that description, I can see his point. Especially after learning that his grandfather is here, and his father, and his brother as well. Beauty is often a measure of meaning.

Still trying to place where I knew him from, he’d become deeply familiar in those few minutes of conversation, I finally break down and just ask him plainly where we knew each other from.

A puzzled look. We had never met before.

But wait, didn’t you call me by name when you passed by earlier?

“Can you repeat that?” He turns his good ear toward me now.

Earlier when you walked by here, didn’t you call me by name? You said “Good morning, Matthew”?

“Must have been the wind, I guess”

We bid farewells and that was that. An awkward encounter in a place of profound importance.

High-fives to all the veterans out there today.

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La Novena

A plein air painting of the Ventura Mission and aqueduct fountain on the Southern California coast

It’s good to have an exit plan. Sometimes it’s a quick exit out the backdoor. Sometimes it’s a longer game, like a sea captain who plants Norfolk pines wherever he lands should his ship’s mast be burnt by pirates or broken in a storm.

And the exit isn’t always what we think. One exits a life of hunger by stealing horses. One exits a life as a thief and turns to religion. One exits a house of religion that weaponizes faith, and instead turns to love any and all in the streets outside. And one exits their life in the end knowing they were one that answered the call because they knew what it was like to have their own calls unanswered.

On the day I painted this, I wasn’t thinking of reaching out to anyone and I had no plan other than to exit with a painting. This was mid-pandemic, the occasional couple would hurry past saying nothing at all beneath their masks- the distance being kept wasn’t only physical. It made for a quiet scene that in other times would be crowded with people enjoying a beautiful afternoon. The few that lingered here weren’t concerned about any of this. No masks, no distancing. Eager to talk through missing teeth. Curious about my painting… and what else was in my bag? Friendly enough, but opportunistic as they had to be living out on the street. I began to question whether my exit strategy was sufficient.

Then I heard a voice calling from the tiled bench where a large man sat just a few paces away. A crutch beside him, he was asking for help to stand up. His outstretched hand was filthy, who knows where it had been? But he wasn’t asking much, just to be heard and touched. And besides, my hands are never all that clean and I can never really know where they’ve been either. All at once I was the ex-padre who knew how it felt to have no one’s help. After joining hands and lifting him up, he moved himself a little way up the promenade and would repeat this again with several other passerbys. I had passed the test and made my exit a short while later with this painting to remind me of the time I met God on the street beneath the 9th mission built in California.

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Right Before Breakfast

An early morning landscape painting of deer grazing on a coastal meadow at sunrise on the Northern California coast

I’m not a “morning” person, I am however a “whatever-magic-is-in-the-light-in-this-particular-place-right-now” person so it worked itself out. Just the sight of these deer grazing along a beachside meadow beneath a rising sun aroused these dry bones from the body bag and back to life. It was such a moving scene, I was surprised whole whales weren’t emerging from the scattered bones buried in the sand as well. They didn’t though. Whales are heavy sleepers.

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Slip and Slide

A plein air landscape painting of a trail crossing a landslide on a remote and rugged coast in northern California

I don’t know if anyone has ever painted from this vantage point, or ever will again. It’s over 10 miles from the nearest road. The logistics of getting here, along with all of one’s painting gear, are not easily solved. And once here, I imagine most would shy away from painting a barren rockslide, but to me that was the magic of this painting. This fire-swept wilderness is one of the most geologically unstable stretches of coastline in California (hence, no roads). It’s a harsh environment, but therein lies its charm and beauty.

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Right Before Lunch

A plein air landscape painting of a trail through a coastal meadow on the far northern coast of California

A view that never gets old. I actually painted from this exact vantage point 15 years ago. I titled that painting Right after Breakfast and figured that I should revisit that spot and see what happens, so that’s what I did… right before lunch.

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Right Before Dinner

A plein air landscape painting of a rocky point on the far northern coast of California

Just after arrival, I snuck this one in just before setting up camp. And the voices chimed in as I painted. “I’m just a bump on a log” and “I’m just a bird on a rock”, and “I’m just a blade of grass in the wind”. Yeah, me too, I thought. But “I’m hungry” is all that I said.

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The Gamble of Art and Culture

A plein air painting of the Casino building at Avalon Harbor on Catalina island off the coast of southern California

They call it a casino, and yet aside from placing the riskiest bet known to man – betting on art and culture – no gambling has ever taken place in this building. When it was built, Vegas wasn’t much of a thing yet, and the word “casino” was still just an Italian word that means “gathering place”. And so it was the gathering place for art, music, performance, film, dancing and culture in general in this small island town.

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Tower of Song

A plein air painting of the Chimes Tower overlooking Avalon Harbor on Catalina island off the coast of southern California

There’s a tower that watches over the city here and has been tolling its chimes on the quarter of the hour between 8:00 am and 8:00 pm since 1925. Unless Jani Eisenhut is feeling musical. I’ve heard that this lifetime local hops in and and plays whatever she wants on the organ’s chimes, whenever she wants. What a beautiful freedom. Two things. One, she is my hero. And two, we should all have our own tower of song in which to play for the town whenever we please. These paintings are mine. I hope they’re ringing clear to wherever you are right now.

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Idylls of the King

A plein air painting of the view over Avalon Harbor on Catalina Island off the coast of southern California

Did you know that King Arthur’s famed sword, the Excalibur, was forged here, and that this is the island where King Arthur himself passed away? Ok, that’s not true, but the little town tucked behind this little cove on this desert island was named after the island in that very legend, as recorded in the English poet Lord Alfred Tennyson’s Idylls of the King in the late 1880’s. I’m no king but this was a rather idyllic setting to paint an afternoon away, that’s for sure.

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Out of the Strong, Something Sweet

A plein air painting of a dirt road at Lyon's Ranch in the Bald Hills of Humboldt County, California

Out of the eater
Comes something to eat
And out of the reader
Comes something to read…

You may find me in town
Or at home resting my feet
We’ll discuss the numbers
Of money, milk, and meat
We’ll entertain the angels
Without offering a seat
We’ll speak of the devil
Without feeling the heat
But this meeting of minds
Will remain incomplete
This is only my shell
With which you meet

I’m off in the distance
I’m around the bend
I’m out in the wilderness
On a hill in the wind
I’m fighting with God
I’m also his friend

I’m down in the valley
Of the shadow of death
I’m six feet under
I am one last breath

I am the funeral march
I am the end of the road
I am the one to whom
Nothing is owed

I am the mountain moved
I am the song of the bees
I am an avalanche
I am a gentle breeze

From the chaos of love
Comes a heart’s quiet beat
And out of the strong
Comes something sweet

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Twentytwenty

Painting of a dark storm and waves breaking off a beach in Northern California

Twentytwenty doesn’t need much introduction. We’ve all been caught in this storm. That’s what this painting is about.

But there is a bit more backstory to it that some of you might not be aware of. This piece was started live on location at the Dunehouse in Manila, CA as a benefit for Friends of the Dunes. Unable to host their annual event on site due to it being 2020 and all, they were still able to manage to have the Spindrifters come belt out some live tunes for an hour and a half last week while I set up outside and painted to their rhythms. After so many months of not hearing live music in person, let alone being able to paint along, it was a heavy experience and another reminder of just how much this thief called 2020 has attempted to steal from us.

I was a bit rusty during the live portion of this painting out there, so I took it home and did quite a bit of work finishing it up in the studio. I had a vision for this one, and really wanted to bring it through. Generally the only large paintings I work on the studio these days are commissions from collectors and are never available for outright purchase, let alone in an auction. This is a truly rare opportunity to score an original painting like this, it just doesn’t happen very often. Someone’s gonna be stoked. But that’s just business, let’s get back to what this painting is all about…

The peninsula in all of its duneful wonder is a beautiful place and its been fun to paint there every year for the last 6 or so years at their annual event, but to be honest there’s always been something a little odd about being out there in a social setting. The glory of the dunes are best experienced in solitude. And ironically, I don’t think I’m alone in this opinion. We don’t have a desert here in Humboldt- out on the peninsula in these dunes is one of the few places with open sky and empty space. It’s our desert. Our place to face the heavens and scream and cry and laugh and pour out our lives to whoever listens up there. We dream up ideas, we’re captured by visions, confronted by the blank slate of our souls. This alone is a beautiful thing.

But there’s another beautiful thing about this coast. Due to the angle it faces, our predominant northwest winds blow howling onshore out here and the lightest breeze can rough up the ocean to a churning frenzy of whitecaps turning quickly great waves into ragged derelict lumps of water marching drunkenly to shore arm in arm like soccer hooligans after a heated match. But once in awhile the pattern is disrupted on those days when a new storm rolls in. The swirling low pressure systems that move in from the North Pacific meet the land first with a blast of wind from the south, grooming the incoming swells into beautiful gems of organized chaos. Standing alone at the water’s edge on a day like this can be thing of frightening beauty. And that, more than anything is what this painting is about. Finding some beauty in the middle of the storm that has been twentytwenty.

Ok, yes it’s about that, and it’s also about trying not to drown.

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